Page 43 of Omega in Love
Chapter 19
Levi
The penthouse becomes a whirlwind at 6 a.m. when Mathéo Delvecchi arrives with his entourage. I'd been awake since 4:30, making sure the security sweep was complete, checking and rechecking the guest list, coordinating with building security. Standard protocol—but there's nothing standard about watching Brookes prepare for his first major public appearance since the attack.
I stand against the wall, arms crossed, cataloging every person who bustles through our door. Camilla arrives with three assistants, a hair stylist, and Mathéo himself, a whirlwind of silver-streaked black hair, dramatic gestures, and a scent like expensive leather and clove cigarettes. The sharp tang of unfamiliar scents fills our carefully maintained space, and I find myself breathing shallowly, filtering each new presence through my internal threat assessment.
"My darling, Brookes! My phoenix rising!" Mathéo kisses the air beside Brookes' cheeks, never actually touching him. "Such a gift you've given me, agreeing to walk exclusively for my collection. You will be my masterpiece!"
Brookes smiles, that practiced curve of lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. I know that smile. It's the one he uses when the world expects him to perform but he's holding himself together with sheer will. The slight tightness around his eyes betrays him to those of us who've learned to read the subtleties of his expressions.
"The honor is mine," Brookes responds smoothly. "Your vision for this collection is revolutionary." His voice carries the perfect blend of enthusiasm and professional courtesy, a skill he's honed to perfection over years in the industry.
Brookes stands perfectly still as they transform our living room into a makeshift atelier. Garment racks appear, lighting equipment, portable mirrors. The space that had been our sanctuary becomes foreign territory, invaded by strangers who move with entitled efficiency. Dante, Hero, and I are relegated to the periphery, unwanted obstacles in the creative process. I shift my stance, maintaining sight lines to both Brookes and every exit point.
"The security team can wait outside, yes? We need space. Creative energy cannot flow with such intensity." Mathéo waves his hand in our direction without actually looking at us, as if we're furniture he'd like rearranged.
Hero shifts his weight, a subtle tell that he's not happy. His hazel eyes narrow slightly, scanning the room with renewed vigilance. Dante's jaw tightens, the muscle flexing beneath his golden-brown skin. I make eye contact with Brookes, silently asking the question, ready to comply with whatever makes him most comfortable.
"They stay," Brookes says, voice light but firm. "Non-negotiable, I'm afraid." Under the politeness, I hear the thread of anxiety he's trying to mask.
Mathéo shrugs dramatically. "As you wish, chéri. They must stay out of the way." He dismisses us with a flick of his wrist, already turning his attention back to his muse.
We position ourselves at strategic points around the room, Dante by the door, Hero near the windows, me closest to Brookes. Close enough to reach him in two strides if needed, far enough to give him the professional space he requires. We've practiced this formation, perfected it through months of protecting him in various situations.
The next three hours are an exercise in restraint. I watch as they dress him like a doll, hands adjusting, measuring, pinning. Each touch makes my Alpha instincts flare, but I breathe through it, counting silently, grounding myself. This is his world. These people aren't threats, not in the traditional sense but every time someone moves too quickly toward him, I catch the momentary stiffening of his shoulders, the barely perceptible hitch in his breath, the way his fingers curl slightly before forcing themselves to relax.
His scent shifts subtly throughout the fitting, the fresh rose fragrance occasionally edged with something sharper when hands linger too long or when they crowd him. No one else notices. They're too busy creating art with him as the canvas, oblivious to the living, breathing person beneath their creation. The sweet floral notes sour briefly with anxiety before he regains control.
I notice. I always notice.
They place him on a small platform, surrounding him with mirrors that reflect his image infinitely, making the room seem full of various angles of Brookes, each one poised and perfect. The final look is breathtaking, a tailored black suit with intricate embroidery that catches the light like stars when he moves. The cut emphasizes his graceful frame while somehow making himlook stronger, more imposing. The black fabric makes his brown skin glow, highlighting the elegant lines of his face.
"Turn, please. Slowly," Mathéo instructs, circling like a director choreographing his masterpiece.
Brookes complies, moving with the fluid elegance that made him famous. His expression remains serene, professional. To the untrained eye, he's the picture of confidence. I see the way his fingertips press slightly harder against his thighs when he turns his back to the room, a vulnerability he can't quite conceal. I catch the measured, deliberate breathing, four counts in, four counts out, when the assistants rush forward to make final adjustments. It's the breathing technique Hero taught him to managing panic attacks.
"Perfection!" Mathéo claps his hands. "You will be my crowning glory, Brookes. Everyone will be reminded of why you are irreplaceable."
The irony of that word irreplaceable isn't lost on me. To them, he's a commodity. Valuable, yes, but for what he represents, what he can showcase. I hate that I can't shield him from this. That all I can do is stand here, watching, waiting, while they treat him like an object to be arranged. My hands itch to comfort him, to offer the grounding touch I know helps when his anxiety spikes, but I remain professional, my expression neutral despite the protective rage simmering beneath.
When Mathéo finally leaves in a theatrical flurry of air kisses and dramatic proclamations about destiny and artistry, the penthouse falls into blessed silence. Brookes remains standing on the platform for a long moment after they're gone, still as a statue, eyes closed. In this moment of vulnerability, with no audience but us, the exhaustion shows in the slight droop of his shoulders, the tension finally releasing from his carefully maintained posture.
"Bloom?" I keep my voice soft, approaching slowly, making my footsteps audible so I don't startle him.
He opens his eyes, meeting mine in the mirror. "I'm okay," he says, but his scent tells a different story, exhaustion and strain weaving through the rose notes. There's a fragility in his gaze that he would never allow others to see.
"I know." I don't challenge the lie. We both understand this ritual. "Can I help you down?"
He nods once, and I offer my hand. His fingers are cold when they touch mine, slender and delicate against my larger palm. I resist the urge to envelop his hand completely, to warm it between both of mine.
"I need a shower," he whispers, and I understand what he's really saying. He needs to wash away the sensation of all those hands, all those eyes. He needs to reclaim his body as his own, not a canvas for others' visions.
"Take all the time you need," I tell him, voice low and reassuring. "No rush."
Hero appears with a fresh towel and Brookes’ favorite robe, the soft blue one that smells like home. Dante has already started clearing away the creative chaos, reclaiming our space. We move around each other in practiced synchronicity, giving Brookes what he needs without having to ask.
When the bathroom door closes behind him, I exhale slowly, rolling tension from my shoulders. The sound of the shower running is oddly comforting, a barrier of white noise between Brookes and the world that demands too much from him. I listen for any sign of distress, a habit born from nights when nightmares pulled him screaming from sleep.
